


Remembering the Nameless

by gaydaractivate04



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Casualty reports, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fire Lord Zuko, In the end, Iroh (Avatar) loves Tea, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Zuko Has No Sense Of Self Preservation, it's fucked up I know, like a lot? but not on screen, the 41st division - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29599515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaydaractivate04/pseuds/gaydaractivate04
Summary: The firehawk landed with the grace of its species, claws pricking Zuko’s arm where it perched, despite the thick fabric of his sleeves.Maybe, his father had realized Zuko was needed at home and was cutting his search short before it could truly begin, allowing Zuko to return and regain the honor he’d lost in that fateful Agni Kai.Zuko couldn’t help the hope that welled inside him, as he leaned against the railing and unfurled the scroll with trembling fingers.It was -It was a casualty report, with nearly two hundred names listed. Zuko stared down at the page, uncomprehending as he read the artfully penned characters, scanning the paper for something, anything to explain what he was looking at.
Relationships: Fire Nation Citizen(s) & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Zuko & Zuko's Crew (Avatar)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 261





	Remembering the Nameless

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so, did you know that a single military division typically contains 10,000 to 25,000 soldiers? Because I had to look that up for this story and I did not know that.
> 
> Remember how the 41st division was practically only child soldiers?
> 
> Remember how Zuko tried to save their lives?
> 
> Remember how Ozai is an asshole?
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story!

Zuko received the first letter a week into his journey, his search, his bandages soaked through with blood and  _ fluids, _ the minty smell of burn cream stuck in the back of his throat.

It arrived at first light, just as Agni was gracing the world with Her power, the crew of the Wani blearily beginning morning duties as they relieved the night shift. Zuko had been leaning, slumped, against the deck’s railing, Uncle Iroh sipping tea beside him.

The ship’s healer, Satomi, had implored him to remain below decks and  _ rest, _ but a captain does not sleep away the day while his people toil above him, and if Zuko was to ever return home -

Well, he certainly wouldn’t capture the Avatar while he napped.

Nevermind that the metal sheets making up the deck floor were exceedingly difficult to walk across, nevermind that the stairs had blurred before his  ~~_ eyes _ ~~ eye when he’d climbed them, and it was only Uncle’s gentle hand on his back that kept Zuko from tilting backwards as his vision fluttered in and out.

_ He didn’t need that gentleness, he wasn’t a child, he would’ve been fine. _

He almost felt bad for dragging Uncle Iroh out of bed at such an hour -- but Uncle had been the one who’d followed him up the stairs, and if he’d wanted to sleep, then the older man should’ve stayed in bed.

It was a battle to stay upright, with only his shaking hands clutching the railing, elbows pressed against the curved metal. Zuko was nearly ready to concede and admit defeat, to go below deck and retrieve warm breakfast in the mess hall, when he spotted it.

A small, red speck, soaring through the sky, rapidly approaching. A firehawk, the well trained birds used to carry correspondence between military officials and others of high ranks among the Fire Nation.

Maybe Father had a message for him. Maybe, his father had realized Zuko was needed at home and was cutting his search short before it could truly begin, allowing Zuko to return and regain the honor he’d lost in that fateful Agni Kai.

He knew the others on deck saw the messenger bird as well, productivity slowing as the crew watched, the monotony of a seabound journey broken by a new arrival. His uncle straightened beside him and Zuko could feel the curiosity behind them growing as both wayward prince and esteemed general waited, expectant, for the firehawk to land.

The bird landed with the grace of its species, its claws pricking Zuko’s arm where it perched, despite the thick fabric of his sleeves. Despite the shaking in his legs, they held beneath him, and Zuko let go of the railing entirely, using his newly free hand to untie the ribbon wrapped around the firehawk’s leg, pulling the message free from its bindings.

The moment the letter was in his grasp, the bird took flight again, beating its wings hard as it headed back the way it had come, towards the coast. No chance of replying; it was not a correspondence, it was an order -

Zuko couldn’t help the hope that welled inside him, as he leaned against the railing and unfurled the scroll with trembling fingers.

It was -

It was a casualty report, with nearly two hundred names listed. Zuko stared down at the page, uncomprehending as he read the artfully penned characters, scanning the paper for something,  _ anything _ to explain what he was looking at.

There was nothing personal about it, the description of an ambush given in a detached, clinical tone. There was no signature, only the seal of a general at the bottom, the wax fresh and a vibrant red, not even a day old.

General Hamada, the man Zuko had challenged in the war room, the man who’d proposed a  _ cowardly _ and  _ dishonorable _ plan to sacrifice the young men and women of the Fire Nation, had carried out his proposal and lost two hundred lives because of his ruinous decision.

_ No.  _ No, it was Zuko who’d been disrespectful and shortsighted, and he’d deserved what he’d gotten, the burn a permanent reminder, where everyone could see.

But those soldiers…

Those names, written so callously on the parchment, had once belonged to living,  _ breathing _ beings. And now, they were lost, crushed beneath stone or run through by blades, their blood watering the earth.

Zuko ignored his uncle’s call after him, as he stalked to the stairwell, anger lining every inch of his body -- though he was careful to leave the report untouched, uncreased, in his hand. He left the prying eyes of the crew behind and went directly to his quarters, shutting the door tight behind him.

There, the anger finally melded to grief, as he shakily went through the chest at the end of his bed, kneeling, his legs no longer able to hold him up, his head pounding and vision blurring. Scroll set on the ground beside him, Zuko dug through the few belongings he’d been permitted to bring with him, as a prince stripped of his titles.

_ There. _ Near the bottom lay a bamboo tube, the type one would store an especially precious piece of writing, a play or poem they treasure enough to carry with them, wherever they might go. 

It would serve his purpose just fine.

Carefully, Zuko rolled the report back up tightly, pushing the paper entirely inside before he sealed the tube up -- no damage would come to that list, to those names. He would remember them all.

His words in the war room may have been insolent, his naive opinions thrown in the face of his father, when he’d been given an opportunity he barely deserved, but those soldiers…

The 41st division had earned his respect. He had not earned theirs.

He would remember them  _ all. _

  
  


_______________

  
  


The next message came four months later, while they were docked in one of the few Fire Nation neutral towns left, restocking on basic food rations and necessities -- soap, oil for blades, extra pairs of socks.

Who knew it could get so cold in the middle of the ocean, on a ship made of metal?

Some mornings, even Uncle’s jasmine tea and Dekku’s best attempts to make a palatable,  _ warm _ breakfast didn’t help, the nonbenders among the crew huddling with firebenders every chance they got, soaking in the warmth they gave off.

_ (Zuko’s firebending had not yet returned, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or scared of its disappearance.) _

Zuko was standing by the ship, Lieutenant Jee a scant five feet away, taking down what cargo the rest of the crew had retrieved, what items still needed to be purchased. Zuko had almost offered to do it instead, allowing the man to explore the marketplace as he himself wished to -

But a crown prince, even one banished and burned, was not a ship’s scribe. 

After all, Jee had stayed behind on his own free will, taking in Zuko’s steady stance and crossed arms, before he’d exchanged a nod with Uncle and pulled out a stick of charcoal, a piece of parchment secured to a bamboo frame.

He didn’t need a  _ babysitter. _ However, his opinion - no matter how many times he shouted and hissed and snarled those same words - on that matter were not taken into account by Uncle Iroh, and he was left scowling, after curtly declining an invitation to stroll through the market.

They were wasting time, with this exploration, crew members spending their stipends on useless items, his uncle spending gold on _yet_ _another_ tea set. Zuko knew he was alone on this side of the argument, and so he said no more about it.

He was not expecting any messages, and neither was Uncle -- reason enough for the startled cry that fell from his mouth when a firehawk dove from the sky, wings flaring and feathers rustling as it pulled up short, alighting on his shoulder, its sharp beak nipping at Zuko’s ear as he twisted.

A palace bird; he’d recognize that training anywhere.

There was, as before, a scroll tied to its leg, kept protected in a small, leather case. It’s narrower than the previous one, and Zuko managed to pry the paper out, pinching it between two fingers, when he couldn’t get the  _ bird _ to move.

Lieutenant Jee was watching, curious, his charcoal paused in the middle of a sentence. The scrutiny was off putting, especially as the bird stayed put, its claws hooked into his tunic, stinging like needles where they pricked his skin.

The prospect of receiving an important message, perhaps a clue to the whereabouts of the Avatar, made Zuko’s hopes rise, as he fumbled with the scroll’s tie, as he unrolled the paper and scanned it.

Names.

Nearly fifty, by his estimate. This time, there was no carefully recounted summary of military maneuvers, no perfectly phrased words crediting those soldiers with the success of an attack, the unknowing victims of Fire Nation tactics.

The firehawk, as if it was waiting for his reaction so that it might relay his expression to his father, took off, pushing off the support of Zuko’s shoulder and flapping hard, rising high, out of reach in moments.

“Prince Zuko?” asked Jee, the paper and charcoal lowered, his eyes flickering from the message that trembled in Zuko’s hands to his face, where Zuko had bit his lip so hard he could taste blood. “Are you alright?”

He couldn’t tear his eyes from the characters, the precise lines spelling out Zuko’s failures and shortcomings. He’d failed those soldiers, those brave citizens of his nation, and they were paying for his mistakes.

“I’m fine,” he responded, neatly folding the paper in half -- those names were not for anyone to see but him. The lives lost were no one's fault but his own.

The scroll went in his pocket, tucked away just as the crew of the Wani began to return, weighed down with their purchases, arms laden with bags of rice and dried meat. Later, it would go in the bamboo case, neatly stored beside the first message.

For now, the names burned a hole in Zuko’s pocket, in Zuko’s heart, as he greeted his uncle and relieved him of what heavy items he could manage.

  
  


_______________

  
  


The third was half a year later, arriving at both an inconvenient and  _ perfect _ time, right as Commander Zhao extended an invitation for Zuko and Uncle Iroh to join him for tea. No doubt he had ulterior motives; Zuko had never seen someone so... _ oily _ speak so politely, with no obvious reasoning.

The firehawk, instead of landing directly on Zuko as the others before it had, was perched on the gangway of his ship, peering down at him with its beady, little eyes. Ignoring all others around him, Zuko strode towards the bird, stooping when he neared, extending a closed fist in the hopes it would hop closer -- offering fingers was an invitation to get bitten.

For once, something worked in his favor. The messenger hawk moved closer, the leg with the letter tied to it dragging slightly as it moved. Behind him, Zhao was making outraged noise, confused and offended, and Zuko chose to drown it out, hearing Uncle’s even tones meet Zhao’s harsh ones.

This letter -

This one was heavier than the first two, thicker. Zuko already knew what it contained, knew he’d only open it to find more names, more lives lost, more blood on his hands.

He did not want to read it.

He did not have a choice.

Zuko  _ owed _ it to those soldiers to read their names, every single one of them, until the ink blurred before his eyes, until their cries haunted his dreams. He deserved the pain of their loss, for it was  _ his _ failures that ended their lives.

“Commander Zhao,” Zuko said, as he straightened from his crouch, interrupting whatever platitude, whatever threat his uncle had been artfully weaving. “I thank you for your kind offer, but I find that I prefer the tea we have on board. And we, unlike you, have urgent duties to complete.”

The commander’s eyes zeroed in on the message clutched in Zuko’s hand -- he could already see the theories and ideas forming behind the man’s eyes, as a wide smile spread over his face, covering up the ugly expression that had twisted it moments ago.

“Have you received news of the Avatar?” asked Zhao, his gaze unblinking as he watched Zuko.  _ Out of all the creepy commanders to run into - _ “Perhaps, I could be of some assistance.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Uncle Iroh, chiming in with a much calmer tone than Zuko had been about to respond in. “We wouldn’t wish to pull you away from your ever important responsibilities, patrolling our waters and ensuring the citizens of the Fire Nation remain protected…”   
  
Zuko left his uncle to talk with Zhao, stalking up the gangplank and across the deck, making a beeline in the direction of his quarters, letting the crew move out of  _ his _ way. He was sure he’d get a lecture later, full of disappointed frowns and reminders about  _ respect - _

_ (Respecting his crew, at least, for even Uncle couldn’t find a redeemable quality when it came to Zhao.) _

But right now, Zuko needed to read those names. Take them to heart. Store them there, where they’d never fade from memory. He could not forget a single one.

  
  


_______________

  
  


Six months and two weeks later.

The crew was enjoying an easy day, the ship anchored just offshore, providing a safe cove for the sailors to swim in -- in the cases of a few, Lieutenant Jee served as both lifeguard and teacher, putting beginners through their paces.

Zuko had been warming up on the deck, considering diving in, if not to join the splashes and laughter below, then to refresh himself on such a hot day, finally relieved of his armor -

The firehawk seemed to come out of nowhere, landing on the deck with a skittering of talons and flutter of feathers.

His room was suffocatingly hot when he reentered it, and Zuko couldn’t help but think he deserved how uncomfortable he was, as he kneeled beside his chest of belongings, retrieving the bamboo tube.

  
  


_______________

  
  


Five months, three weeks, and four days later.

It was bitterly cold, and Zuko was amazed that the firehawk hadn’t fallen from the sky, with the storming sea and pounding rain, water coming from all directions.

There were few others above deck with him, Uncle having retired to his quarters after warning Zuko to watch his footing -- slippery, smooth metal could spell out a death sentence.

The rain meant no one bore witness to the tears, dripping down his face, when he saw how thick the rolled up report was.

  
  


_______________

  
  


Three months and two weeks after came the next message.

It was an unusually windy day, the sky clear of any clouds as the hawk landed on Zuko’s arm, the paper untied and stowed away, under the inquiring gaze of Uncle Iroh.

Zuko didn’t meet his eyes; it was his burden alone.

  
  


_______________

  
  


During one of the music nights, when instruments, voices, and the stomping of feet vibrated through the small ship. Laughter and conversation floated down to Zuko, where he sat on his bed, hunched over a piece of paper, lips moving soundlessly as he mouthed the names.

  
  


_______________

  
  


Midday, as lunch was being prepared and Zuko practiced his katas, running through them dry, while his uncle looked on.

  
  


_______________

  
  


In the middle of the night, the tapping of the firehawk’s beak woke Zuko, the porthole window swinging open moments later.

  
  


_______________

  
  


Azula told him, when he returned to his father, after she struck the Avatar down and gave him the glory, after Zuko betrayed his uncle and the waterbender and left everything he’d been building behind -

She told him, her voice soft in a way he hadn’t heard for a  _ long _ time, that the 41st division had perished, every member that had been in the original group had died in battle, as they were transferred to other commanders and stations and postings.

Zuko stayed in his room that day, ignoring Mai’s attempts to speak with him.

  
  


_______________

  
  


He confronted his father only a few days later, when Agni’s light was lost from view and the Fire Nation was left vulnerable, when Ozai had to sit and listen to Zuko, the flames that adorned his fingers sputtering out as Tui darkened the sky.

The lightning he shot back at his father was not just for himself, not just for the burn that covered his face, not just for the countless scars and cuts and bruises he’d borne over the last three years, for the past sixteen years -

But for his mother, her life cut short when she was forced to abandon her children, when she was pulled from her home to marry a man she’d never met and could  _ never _ love.

For his uncle, who’d left his prestige behind and joined Zuko in banishment, if only to ensure he didn’t burn himself down within the first years. Who’d lost his son in Ba Sing Se and his nephew in the catacombs below.

For the 41st division, nearly ten thousand lives sacrificed for a ruler that couldn’t care  _ less _ about them.

  
  


_______________

  
  


Zuko was crowned Fire Lord before a cheering crowd of thousands, after defeating his sister and surviving a bolt of lightning to the chest, after his father’s bending was taken and the man himself was stowed in the bowels of the palace, and yet the hard part was still to come.

Change.

Presented with a council of stubborn, war-loving generals, with no knowledge of who he  _ can _ and  _ can’t _ trust, Zuko decided to bypass them entirely, going straight to the men and women who were affected by his decisions.

At least, in a nation with a corrupt monarchy, the Fire Lord’s word was law and Zuko…

Zuko was the Fire Lord.

Which means, when he summoned experts on agriculture and crop growth to his chambers, prioritizing his meetings with them over those with the generals, they could do nothing but sit passively by, muttering their dissent in the safety of their quarters.

Which means, when Zuko ordered the revision of all school curriculum, provided the person in charge of such an action with all the knowledge in the entire palace’s libraries, including his own, personal one, they could not say a word.

Which means, when he brought Toph into a meeting with the war council, and he ruthlessly interrogated every member, one by one, she rooted out who was lying and who harbored even the  _ slightest _ support for what he was trying to do, for the lives he was trying to save.

They could not protest when he removed nearly all of them from their posts -  _ providing them compensation, of course, no need for a mob of entitled nobles breaking down his door _ \- and sent them home. They could not protest when he dissolved over half of the army, raising the wages of those who chose to stay.

After an entire century of ensuring that the Fire Lord reigned supreme, the laws finally came back to bite those who put them in place.

One of the easiest decisions, however, was not made while discussing corn planting or Southern Water Tribe customs with Sokka by his side, but in the early hours of the morning, while Zuko roamed the halls, familiarizing himself with the palace again, now that his father’s oppressive presence was gone.

His roaming took him to the door of the court’s architect, lantern light shining beneath the door. He was sure his knock, his arrival, startled the woman, though she didn’t show her alarm, ever practiced deceiver in a palace of rat-vipers.

That mask faded as Zuko presented his idea to her, as he pulled out stacks upon stacks of papers, of reports, the creases ingrained and characters faded, for the constant rereading and refolding. 

She said she could design it quickly, that it was simple and would only take a few days to present the options to him. The construction wouldn’t be very hard either, under a month, most likely, a drastic decrease in her original estimation, before he’d explained the purpose, the  _ meaning _ behind it.

He’d watched the respect in her eyes smolder and grow, her irritation at his interrupting diminishing the longer he spoke. Zuko took great pleasure in proving to his people that he was  _ nothing _ like his predecessors. 

Zuko paid for it with his own money -- not the gold from the Nation’s coffers, but that from the royal family’s treasury, the money his father and grandfather and  _ great grandfather _ had hoarded over the years.

All those names, every single one of them, the characters burned into Zuko’s mind, were then carved into the walls of the palace, into the walls of the entry hall, which led to his throne room.

All ten thousand, three hundred, and twenty four names, paid for with his father’s money, their lives preserved by the war that killed them.

No one dared protest the expense, not when they learned that those were the names of  _ children _ on the walls.

  
  


_______________

  
  


It was two weeks later when the letter arrived, tied to the leg of an unkept firehawk, the familiar  _ click clack _ of its talons on stone drawing Zuko’s attention away from his friends, where they were crowded around their lunch, laughter ringing through the palace for the first time in years.

The message, when he unrolled it, eyes scanning the characters written in scratchy, messy handwriting,  _ shook _ as he read. 

“Zuko,” said Sokka, coming up beside him and peering over his shoulder, his hand a comforting weight on Zuko’s back. “What’s wrong?”

He could only open and close his mouth, gaping, as he blindly pushed the paper in his friend’s direction. Not a word could come out, the air in his lungs turned to stone, the sounds frozen in his throat.

_ Greetings, Your Majesty. _

_ My name is Tadao. _

_ I fought in the 41st division for ten months, after your banishment, and I heard what you tried to do for us. I heard what you did for my friends, on the walls of your palace. _

_ As the last remaining soldier of that division, I thank you on behalf of my fellow soldiers. You honored them in a way your father never did. _

_ Do not allow the memory of their deaths to fade as you rule, that is all I ask. _

Zuko would never forget them, and he’d ensure no one else did either. Their sacrifice would not be in vain.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! I hope y'all liked this story -- I was inspired this morning at seven fucking am by two (2) sentences in another fic and didn't start to write until lunch.
> 
> Such is fanfiction writing.
> 
> Also, Tadao is a Japanese name which roughly translates to "loyal friend", as google told me. I thought it was fitting for the circumstances.
> 
> Please lemme know what you thought! I really want to know.
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy!!


End file.
